“Well, I don’t think—”
“What about the big news?” Connor asked, interrupting, eager to quell the growing disagreement between Mark and Summer.
Mark nodded, chewing lazily, like a cow on cud, building suspense in the process. He swallowed and said, “This is the biggest news I’ve ever had.”
The room was quiet.
Then Javier exploded. “Spit it out already.”
Mark said, “My sister got a job working for Jacob Roth, and she’s watching him.”
“The Roth banking family?” Connor asked.
“Yeah. I’m gonna have her install a nanocamera in his office.”
“I’ve never heard of Jacob Roth.”
“He’s the middle brother. The CEO of Housing Trust. The other brothers and the father are the ones who really run things.”
“You really expect us to believe that?” Javier asked.
“It’s true. You can find him on Housing Trust’s website.”
Javier blew out a breath. “No, do you really expect us to believe that your sister is working for him and that she’ll install a nanocamera?”
“I don’t know if she’s gonna install it or not. I’m gonna try to get her to do it though.”
“This sounds suspiciously like the time you supposedly talked to a former NASA scientist, and he admitted that we’ve never been to the moon.”
Mark blushed beet red. “That was true.”
“How about the FBI agent who said that the technology used to make thorium reactors came from aliens?”
“That’s what he told me. I can’t say if it’s true or not.”
“What about the time you met Naomi Sutton?”
Mark crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “I didn’t say I met her. I said I thought I saw her.”
“Come on,” Javier said. “That’s not true.”
“What do you guys think about her?” Summer asked.
“She might be the only honest politician in Washington,” Javier said.
“She’s a socialist,” Mark said, one side of his mouth raised in contempt.
“So what? What’s wrong with making the rich pay their fair share?” Javier asked.
“I kind of like her too,” Connor said. “She tells the truth. Or at least she seems to.”
Mark shook his head. “She’s just another statist out for power and control over us.”
8
Naomi and Alexandria Acres
Their autonomous sedan drove in synchronicity with the Saturday traffic. Naomi sat in the back, scrolling through headlines on her tablet. Alan did the same at the opposite end of the bench seat.
Thorium Supplies One-Quarter of Our Energy
Population Declining
New Jersey Legalizes Bot Marriage
NASA Scraps Manned Mission to Mars
Man Starves Himself to Buy Sex Bot
Arctic Oil: The Last Prize
Naomi tapped the NASA Scraps Manned Mission to Mars link. The article referenced the SpaceX disaster five years earlier, when the first Mars inhabitants all died in a massive dust storm. NASA had planned to launch a manned mission to Mars, but that plan was suspended indefinitely, the article citing budgetary issues as the cause.
Naomi tapped the link on Population Declining. She skimmed the article, noting that the world population had declined from 8.3 billion people in 2035 to 6.8 billion in 2050. The article attributed the causes to famine, disease, extreme weather events, suicides, cancer, water and air pollution, male sterility, and even the trend for many men to forgo traditional marriage in favor of sex bots as companions.
“Anything interesting?” Alan asked, setting down his tablet.
Naomi looked up from her screen. “Not really. NASA canceled their manned mission to Mars.”
“I knew that was coming. Anything else?”
“Apparently, men will choose sex over food.”
Alan smirked. “That’s news?”
Naomi laughed.
The sedan eased onto 495 South, the traffic moving steadily, the computer-controlled cars perfectly spaced.
“On a more serious topic, we should probably discuss our mothers and their living situations,” Naomi said.
“I know.”
“With Blake at Georgetown and our mothers living it up in a five-star retirement community, we’re bleeding our retirement.”
“We’ll have our federal pensions,” Alan said.
“But what will they be worth by then? Raises, even for federal government employees, haven’t kept up with inflation.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting we cut our subsidies to our mothers.”
Alan knitted his brows. “Where will they go? They certainly can’t afford Alexandria Acres.”
“I’m not suggesting that we don’t help them out. I’m just suggesting that they go someplace less expensive. There are reasonable state-run facilities.”
Alan twisted his face in horror. “Have you ever been to a state-run retirement home?”
“Have you?”
“Yes. My uncle Chester was in that place in Manassas. It smelled like death, the food was awful, and, even with people dropping like flies, it was overcrowded.”
“Well, we’d have to find a decent place.”
“I’m against it. They don’t have many years left. It’s our responsibility to take care of them.”
“You’re afraid to tell your mother, aren’t you?”
Alan flushed scarlet. “It’s not about that. It’s about doing the right thing. Plus, it’s really convenient having them in the same place. What if we move them, and they don’t want to live at the same place?”
“So, we’re supposed to bankrupt ourselves to take care of our eightysomething mothers?”
“If we have to.”
Naomi frowned. “Well, I’m against that.”
“Let’s give it some more time.”
“Fine, but if your mother makes another racist comment, I’m walking out.”
“She’s from a different time.”
“I don’t care.” Naomi turned from Alan and gazed out the window.
The autonomous sedan exited 495 South, turning onto Braddock Road. Naomi, knowing they were getting close, dug in her purse and retrieved her makeup mirror. She opened the mirror, checked her face and hair. Even at fifty-two, her dark skin was smooth and even. She wore little makeup, just a little to accent her eyes and her full lips. If it wasn’t for her close-cropped gray hair, she could pass for thirty.
The sedan idled in front of the high-rise. An ambulance parked in front of the emergency entrance. Naomi stepped from the car, waiting for her husband. Alan exited the car, all gangly arms and legs, like a human spider.
He held a bouquet of roses for his mother. It wasn’t her birthday, but Alan often brought her gifts. Now the ritual was expected, his overtures rarely eliciting a positive grunt much less a thank-you. Alan offered to pick up flowers for Naomi’s mother as well, but the old woman wasn’t interested in watching something else die. As they walked through the automatic doors, the car drove toward the parking area.
Inside, the lobby was marble floored and nicely appointed with leather couches, a massive fireplace, and fresh flowers. Alexandria Acres was one part hospital and one part high-end hotel. Residents had to be buzzed in and out, as did their guests.
Naomi and Alan approached the front desk and waved their hands over the chip reader. The receptionist checked their credentials, smiled, and unlocked the door leading past the lobby. They took the elevator to the eighth floor, then walked to room number 852.
Nurses and orderlies walked along the halls. The eighth floor was a monitored floor, for residents who couldn’t live without help. Six months ago, Naomi’s mother, Bea, was on the twenty-second floor in an independent apartment. However, after she was found roaming around the city of Alexandria in her bedclothes, she was moved to the eighth floor.
Alan set his flowers on the floor just outsi
de the room. Naomi knew he didn’t want to explain that the flowers weren’t for Bea. Naomi knocked on the door and stepped into the room. Bea sat upright on the inclined bed, streaming some old movie. She was a tiny woman with a prune-like face.
“Hi, Mom,” Naomi said, approaching the hospital bed.
Bea squinted at Naomi, as if trying to place her. “Oh, hi, dear. What are you doing here?” She turned back to the screen and said, “Genie, pause the movie.”
“Movie paused,” a female voice said from the speakers, the movie now stilled on the screen.
Alan entered the room.
“Alan and I are here to visit. I told you that we were coming.”
“Hello, Bea,” Alan said with a wave and a grin.
“Alan, honey. Look at you,” Bea said. “Either you’re getting taller or I’m getting smaller.”
Alan chuckled. “I think I’m too old for growth spurts.”
“Well, sit down. Stay awhile.”
They moved two chairs near her bedside and chatted for the next hour. She was having a good day.
* * *
“Well, thank you two for coming to visit,” Bea said, as the conversation fizzled. “I do cherish our time together. If you talk to Joshua, make sure that boy comes to see me. I can’t remember the last time I saw your brother.”
Naomi and Alan gave each other a pained look.
“Mom, Joshua died in Syria almost thirty years ago,” Naomi said.
Bea scrunched up her face and looked away. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed the corners of her eyes. Finally, she turned back to Naomi and Alan. “Of course. I remember. Sorry.”
They hugged and said their goodbyes. Alan scooped up the flowers from the floor, and they rode the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor. On the way, he sent a text to his mother, letting her know they were in the elevator.
At room 2413, Francine greeted Alan with air kisses and a distant hug. Naomi received a curt handshake. Francine was a tall, thin woman, with the posture of a finishing-school valedictorian. They sat around the dining room table, sipping tea, the roses in a vase.
“How are things on Capitol Hill these days?” Francine asked Naomi.
“Change is slow, but I think it’s coming,” Naomi replied.
“Change isn’t always for the better. A lot of change happened in my lifetime, and most of it’s been bad. I remember when people were proud to be Americans. Now everybody is from some other place. Why do they come here if they like their country so much?”
“Immigrants should bring their culture here, and we should embrace it. We’re lucky to have the best people from all over the world.”
“Come on. This isn’t the campaign trail.”
“Now, Mom. Be nice,” Alan said.
Francine waved her hand, dismissing Alan. “Naomi’s a big girl. I’m sure she can handle a little debate. If she can’t handle an old lady, what will she do with those snakes in DC?” Francine looked at Naomi. “You’re not one of those offended liberals, are you?”
“Depends on what you say,” Naomi replied, sitting ramrod straight, her dark eyes narrowed at the old woman.
“See? That’s the problem with all this speech control. It’s fascism. That’s what it is. We used to have freedom of speech in this country.”
“We still do, but there are restrictions. You can’t incite violence, and you can’t use hate speech.”
“It’s the most ridiculous thing.”
“The legislation has really helped marginalized groups and people of color,” Alan said.
“It’s a bunch of white liberal guilt,” Francine said.
“Do you think people should be allowed to use the N-word?” Naomi asked.
“Black people use it all the time.”
“People of color,” Alan corrected.
“There has to be context too,” Naomi said. “People of color do use that word, but more often than not it’s to take away the negative power of the word. It’s about overcoming the oppression of the word. In general, it’s not a hateful context.”
“And who determines the context and what’s hateful and what’s not?” Francine asked.
“Ultimately, a judge and a jury.”
Francine shook her head. “That’s the problem with this country. We used to work hard. We used to build things and win wars. Now everyone’s too busy being offended by words. What happened to sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me?”
“Words have been proven to cause psychological damage,” Alan said.
“All these people of colors need to grow up and quit their whining. I’ve listened to this garbage for eighty-two years, and I’m tired of it.”
“Mom, please. Let’s keep it civil.”
“You don’t think people of color have been oppressed in this country?” Naomi asked, her jaw set tight.
“You certainly haven’t,” Francine said. “When were you born, 2000?”
“1998.”
“You’ve had all the privilege in the world. You’re a congresswoman married to a white man, for heaven’s sake. And you can say whatever you want because you’re a person of color. That is what you want to be called, right?”
“I’d like to be called Naomi.”
Francine frowned at that. “Well, I wouldn’t want to call you the wrong thing. You might have me put in jail.”
Naomi stood from the table. “I’ll wait in the car.”
9
Derek and the Treatments
It had been a long weekend. Derek’s mother wasn’t feeling well, so he’d worked the farmers’ market by himself. It would’ve been nice if Lindsey or April had come to visit. He would’ve loved the company. He trudged down the stairs, bleary-eyed, thinking about the Hannah orange harvest. If his calculations were correct, the late-season oranges would yield enough profit to fix the picker and to carry them through the winter.
Hannah stood in the kitchen, whisking eggs in a bowl. She turned toward her son as he entered the kitchen.
Derek gave her a disapproving look. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“I’m fine.”
She looked pale and thin. Well, at least thin for her. She’d always been a stocky woman. “You still look sick.”
Hannah wobbled and leaned back, the counter bracing her. She dropped the bowl, the ceramic dish shattering on the tile, the eggs splattering. She reached down to pick up the shards, and passed out, her legs buckling, falling awkwardly on her side, her head bouncing off the floor tiles.
“Mom!” Derek said, rushing toward her, too late to stop her fall.
* * *
Hannah was stable and sleeping in the hospital room. Many years ago, after Derek’s father had died of prostate cancer, Hannah had given Derek medical disclosure permission as well as a medical power of attorney. Derek stood in the hall of the hospital, talking to a small Indian doctor. She spoke with a British accent.
“Your mother has stage five breast cancer,” the doctor said.
“Okay. What can we do?” Derek asked.
“The cancer is very advanced and very aggressive.” The doctor paused. “At this point, it’s too late for DNA cage drugs. We can try epigenetic treatments, which can effectively turn off cancer cells, but those are not covered under your insurance.”
“Why didn’t they catch this earlier? I know she’s had checkups over the years.”
“According to her records, she was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago, opted against treatment, and hasn’t been to the doctor since that time.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“How much are these treatments?”
“I’ll have a hospital administrator advise you of the cost.”
“If she gets the treatments, will she be okay?”
“Given her age, the advanced stage and aggressiveness of the cancer, her chances of survival are not guaranteed.”
Derek swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. “What does t
hat mean? Like a 50 percent chance?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reeves. It’s impossible to say for sure.”
“From your experience, what are her chances?”
“Maybe 30 percent, if we begin treatments immediately.”
Derek felt sick to his stomach. “Do the treatments. I’ll pay whatever it costs.”
The doctor led Derek to the hospital administrator, who informed him of the exorbitant cost. Thankfully, they had Fed Coin loans for precisely this situation. Derek signed on the digital dotted line.
* * *
A few hours later, after Hannah’s first treatment, she opened her eyes, groggy. Derek stood from his chair and approached her hospital bed. Her bed was separated from one other by a moveable curtain. Hannah was hooked to monitors and an IV, the lights dim.
“Mom. How are you feelin’?”
“Tired.” Her voice was raspy. “What happened?”
“You passed out.”
“I don’t remember that. I remember making breakfast and dropping my bowl, but … that’s it.” She glanced around the room, looked at her IV, then back to Derek. “How long have I been here?”
Derek checked the clock on his phone. “About seven hours. It’s almost two.”
“When can we go home?”
Derek took a deep breath and said, “Why didn’t you tell me that you had breast cancer?”
“Is that why I passed out?”
“Yes. You’re really sick, Mom. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes watered. She barely lifted one shoulder.
“Mom?”
A few tears slipped down her cheeks. “I didn’t wanna be a burden. The treatments would’ve bankrupted us. I’ve been through this before. We almost lost the farm when your dad got prostate cancer.”
Derek rubbed his temples, then looked back at his mother. “I don’t care about the money.”
“You should.”
“You’re gettin’ the treatments, and you’re gonna be fine.”
Her eyes bulged. “We can’t afford it.”
“We can. The treatments are a lot cheaper now, and there’s a special program for farmers. It won’t bankrupt us.”
2050: Psycho Island Page 5